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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27291814">A Golden Cage</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearlyWriting/pseuds/BearlyWriting'>BearlyWriting</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>SladeRobin Week 2020 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, DCU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Clothed Sex, Day 6: Trapped together, Desperation, Frottage, Jason Todd is Robin, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omorashi, SladeRobin Week 2020, Watersports</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:14:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,562</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27291814</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearlyWriting/pseuds/BearlyWriting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fuck,” Robin gasps. His hips jerk in Slade’s grip, straining against his hands. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I really need to pee.”</p><p>Slade would prefer if Robin didn’t piss all over him whilst their trapped in a box together with no obvious means of escape...wouldn’t he?</p><p>For the SladeRobin Week prompt Trapped Together.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jason Todd/Slade Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>SladeRobin Week 2020 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986958</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Jason Todd Rare Pair Challenge, SladeRobin Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Golden Cage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Day 6 of SladeRobin :) I’m really exposing myself with this one guys 😂 </p><p>Please heed the tags - if you aren’t into piss or underage then this isn’t for you. Otherwise, enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Slade wakes up slow and painfully. His head aches. His whole body hurts. And Slade has been drugged enough times to recognise the side effects - cotton-mouth, heavy limbs, a swimming head. Shit. He can’t remember where he was before waking up here. He can’t remember what happened.</p><p>Not that waking up after being drugged out of his mind is enough to worry Slade, but it’s good to operate under some level of professional caution. Being a mercenary makes a lot of enemies, after all. Slade’s charming personality tends to make more. For now, Slade keeps his eye closed and his breathing even, feeling out the situation as best he can without alerting any possible kidnappers to his consciousness.</p><p>Someone is breathing heavily against his neck. They’re laying across his chest, thin legs resting on either side of his waist. Light enough that they aren’t stoppering Slade’s breath. Short enough that their head rests at the hollow of his throat, hair tickling his skin.</p><p>What the fuck?</p><p>Slade is not in the habit of waking up from drug-induced unconsciousness with someone draped across him. Still, his armour is on, at least. As far as Slade can tell, nothing has been removed but his weapons and his mask. No injuries, either, unless his healing factor has already erased them.</p><p>Slade blinks his eye open. The only other person in the room seems to be <i>on top</i> of Slade, so pretending to be unconscious is probably a moot point. If they’re anyone with more than basic training, they would have noticed the unavoidable hitch of breath when Slade had surfaced into the world of the awake. If they hadn’t already noticed, then Slade has the upper hand anyway.</p><p>Except, opening his eye doesn’t really help much. There’s very little light, just a few shafts filtering in through the uniform holes punched into the side of whatever container Slade is currently trapped in. Because, he isn’t in a room. When Slade twitches his arms out a little, they meet solid walls. Above him, the lid of whatever container he’s in is dark and close, only a little way above his head. If it weren’t for the line of holes, it would be pitch black in here. Air-tight probably, too.</p><p>Well, that’s one thing Slade doesn’t have to worry about. At least he isn’t likely to suffocate to death any time soon. Unfortunately, he has plenty of other problems. Namely, the fact that he’s been drugged and stuffed into a box with someone draped over his chest.</p><p>They aren’t conscious. Or, at least, they’re <i>very</i> good at pretending they’re unconscious. There’s a certain laxness to their body that is very hard to fake though, and their breaths are heavy and wet.</p><p>So, Slade is trapped in a box. By who? And why? And who is he trapped with?</p><p>And, most importantly, can he get out?</p><p>That’s the first thing he should test. Whoever is trapped with him is unlikely to be a threat. And if they are, it isn’t like Slade can do much about it.</p><p>So Slade lifts his arms to press against the lid above him. It’s too close to stretch his arms out fully, but he has enough leverage to strain against the lid. No one has ever accused Slade of modesty, but he knows that he’s stronger than the average person. The lid doesn’t budge an inch.</p><p>So Slade punches it. Hits it. Jostling the limp body pressed against him with every movement. Nothing. The only thing that gives is Slade’s knuckles, already healing by the time he turns his attention to the walls instead.</p><p>There’s just as little give there and Slade doesn’t have the leverage to try much else.</p><p>The body against him groans.</p><p>“Hey,” Slade grumbles, jostling them a little in an attempt to nudge them towards consciousness. The sooner he can get answers the better. Slade isn’t trapped here with them after all - they’re trapped here with him. “You know what the fuck is going on?”</p><p>The person lying against him shifts, wriggling a little as they clearly grapple with the haze of drugs. Slade hopes they used a significantly smaller dose than they’d used on him. You need enough to knock out a draft horse to take Slade down. The body against him feels small enough to be a kid.</p><p>“Wha-” The word is slurred and small. Definitely a kid, although Slade can’t pin their identity down on that half-word alone. “What? You need - the swear jar.”</p><p>Fuck. Slade recognises that voice. And that fucking hypocrisy. It’s Robin. The second Robin, to be precise, because, contrary to the identical costume and the Bat’s unnerving inability to differentiate his sidekicks, there is a difference. Grayson was...maybe not easier to deal with, exactly, but Slade knew <i>how</i> to deal with him. The new little bird has been around for a few years and Slade still hasn’t really got a handle on him.</p><p>Maybe that’s because of the Bat’s overprotectiveness, though. He’d never liked Slade’s interest in Grayson. Not that Slade had ever touched the little bird. Not whilst he was Robin, at least.</p><p>Now that his memory is jogged, Slade remembers fighting the new Robin. Batman had been preoccupied with a break-out in Arkham that Slade hadn’t actually had a hand in but had certainly been willing to make use of and the bird had been alone. It should have been an easy fight. Had been. Slade had gotten the upper hand quickly, pinned Robin despite his Bat-training and then….</p><p>Then it all goes black and foggy. Clearly, someone had drugged the both of them, but Slade has no idea how. Or why. </p><p>What reason would someone have for trapping Deathstroke the Terminator and Robin in a box?</p><p>There are only two real reasons Slade can think of: 1. Someone had intended to take one of them - most likely Slade if they’d been prepared for the heavy amount of tranquiliser they’d need to take him down - and ended up with both of them but only one containment option or 2. Someone intended for Slade to tear the little Robin apart when he’d woken up in a tiny box, drugged out of his mind and only Robin for company.</p><p>Most likely, it’s the first. But, then, Slade can’t rule out the second.</p><p>That isn’t going to happen though. Slade has no reason to hurt the kid. Sure, he’d tried to stop him, but Robin isn’t a threat - not to Slade - and he clearly isn’t the one that put them in this situation. Slade might be a killer, but he isn't totally heartless. He doesn’t kill kids if he can help it.</p><p>“I think this situation warrants a little swearing, kid. You awake?”</p><p>“‘M not a kid,” the kid shoots back immediately, still slurring but sounding much more awake. “Where the fuck are we?”</p><p>The body above him shifts again. Slade can feel the muscles of Robin’s thighs tensing as he attempts to lever himself upright. The lid stops him, of course, just as it had stopped Slade. His weight falls back against Slade, then lifts again, as he attempts to hold himself up on his arms.</p><p>“What the fuck is this?”</p><p>“I was hoping you could tell me,” Slade says, wry. Of course Robin assumes he has something to do with it.</p><p>“Why the fuck would I know what this is? Are we in a box? Are we…?”</p><p>“I think that deserves the swear jar, Robin.”</p><p>Somehow, Robin tenses even further. Even through his armour, Slade can feel the tight line of him against him. His arms tremble where they’re pressed against Slade’s biceps. His thighs tense and release again and again, like he’s trying to push himself up despite the lack of space.</p><p>“Fuck off,” he snarls.</p><p>Slade takes a few steadying breaths. They have oxygen, he reminds himself. And their captor will show themselves soon. Whatever they’re planning, it can’t involve keeping Deathstroke and Robin together in a little box forever. Someone will come to let them out eventually. Then Slade will rain vengeance down upon their asses and teach Robin a little bit about respect at the same time.</p><p>“I’m assuming that means you have no idea why we’ve been captured?” Slade asks, just in case Robin has any intel - or is willing to share it.</p><p>Robin shakes his head. With his arms holding him up, Slade can’t actually feel the movement, as such, although he can feel the displacement of the air. And, this close, he can see it even in the dim light.</p><p>Slade can make out a little of Robin’s face too. The domino mask is gone and he looks flushed. His mouth is dark and wet, pulled down in a grimace of either pain or confusion.</p><p>“No idea. This seems like more of a you thing.” Robin’s eyes gleam as they roam Slade’s face. Slade has no idea what he’s looking for. “Besides, Batman will be here soon. Then he’ll kick your ass <i>and</i> whoever chucked us in here.”</p><p>“I look forward to it,” Slade murmurs. </p><p>Right. If their captor was after Robin, the kid has no idea why, or who. If it’s someone after Slade, he has no idea either. But it <i>is</i> considerably more likely that the kid is just collateral damage. Not that Slade can do much about that.</p><p>All they can do is wait.</p><p>After a while, Robin seems to realise that too. He goes limp again, slumping against Slade as his trembling arms go out. Slade is impressed that he lasted as long as he did, considering he must still be pretty full of the stuff that had knocked them both out.</p><p>They don’t really speak. Both of them attempt to draw a little more information out of their companion before they come to the conclusion that they know as much about the situation as each other. Then they trade a few insults back and forth before finally falling silent. Slade is both grateful and a little concerned.</p><p>The new Robin is mouthy.</p><p>After a few hours - by Slade’s estimation, and where the fuck are their captors? - Robin starts squirming.</p><p>“Stop that,” Slade snaps, as Robin wriggles his hips against him, squirming like a little kid after too much sugar. </p><p>“Sorry,” Robin mumbles.</p><p>For a few minutes, he stays still. So still, that it seems painfully forced, his arms and legs trembling as he holds his position. Then he seems to lose his control, his thigh muscles bunching as he suddenly bounces, rocking himself against Slade in a sharp movement.</p><p>Slade’s hands fly up automatically to close around Robin’s hips, holding him still with easy force.</p><p>“Why are you fidgeting?” Slade asks, low and more angry than he had intended. “If you don’t stay still, I’m going to fucking make you.”</p><p>The truth is...well, Slade is no pervert, but having a lithe young body wriggling against him? It’s bound to cause a reaction. Robin probably won’t be able to feel it through the thick material of the pants Slade wears but Slade doesn’t particularly want to get hard over some teenage kid writhing on top of him.</p><p>“I’m trying,” Robin whispers harshly. His breath puffs against Slade’s neck, hot and urgent. “I’m sorry, I just -”</p><p>He squirms again, as best he can with Slade holding him still. And Slade normally wouldn’t begrudge a young man getting hard in inappropriate situations, but now really isn’t the time.</p><p>“Fuck,” Robin gasps. His hips jerk in Slade’s grip, straining against his hands. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I really need to pee.”</p><p>Oh. <i>Oh</i>. Okay, so Robin probably isn’t hard. Except, this is probably worse. Slade has no idea when someone will be coming to let them out of this little hell-hole. And the idea of Robin pissing on him...well, actually it has something warm curling low in Slade’s belly, but it shouldn’t. The thought should disgust and infuriate him.</p><p>“Hold it,” he snaps, aware that he’s slipped into the same voice he used to use with Grant when he was a kid. It seems to have as little effect on this kid as it had done back then.</p><p>“I’m trying,” Robin whines. Jason - the kid’s name is Jason - Slade remembers, abruptly. Dick had told him that early on, when he’d been trying to get Slade to stay after one of their early one-night-stands. “It’s not - ah - it’s not as easy as you make it out to be.”</p><p>Slade keeps an iron grip on those hips, trying hard to ignore his own pelvis, and the complicated mix of feelings swirling down there. “What? Bats never taught you how to hold it?”</p><p>“What’s it fucking to you, you perv?”</p><p>Robin’s face has gone from flushed to downright red. His eyes and lips are wet, shining in the dim light. The tendons in his neck are corded tight from the tension of holding himself in check.</p><p>“If you piss on me, I’ll make you regret it.”</p><p>Robin whimpers. With his hips held in Slade’s grip, all he can do is shake his leg compulsively, rubbing it against Slade’s hip again and again. His whole body is trembling now, his eyes are so wet that Slade wouldn’t be surprised if he saw a tear.</p><p>“Jesus, kid, you really can’t hold it?”</p><p>Robin just shakes his head, whimpering again. His legs tighten, muscular thighs squeezing hard around Slade’s hips and, Christ, this kid is trying to kill him. Every point of contact between them feels like a brand, the air in the tiny container hot and heavy. Suddenly, Slade is aware of exactly where his hands are placed - how easy it would be to slip them a little further down and palm the tight muscle of the little Robin’s ass. How easily he could slide his thumbs along the crease of the scaly green panties he wears and touch delicate skin.</p><p>Slade drops his hands back down to his sides. It’s a mistake, because the moment he lets go of Robin, the kid moves, whining, muscles tensing as he bounces against Slade’s hips before grinding down hard against him.</p><p>“Fuck,” the kid gasps and Slade has to grind his own expletive between his teeth at the friction, even through his clothes.</p><p>Then the kid jerks up as far as he can go, hovering over Slade, reaching clumsily between his trembling legs with one hand to grab at his cock. “I can’t hold it anymore.”</p><p>“Kid -” Slade starts, but the warning is too late. The kid gasps, jerks. This close, Slade can hear the spurt of piss emptying into his uniform pants. Can hear the frantic pounding of the kid’s heart too.</p><p>Those thighs close around Slade’s hips again as Robin strains in an effort to stop himself. For a moment, he’s successful. Then, with a moan that sounds ripped out of him, the kid starts pissing in earnest.</p><p>It’s loud in the small space, a hissing stream, muffled only by the material of his shorts and the way his palm is cupped over his cock. With his enhanced senses, Slade can hear it perfectly. He can smell it, too. Thick and sharp between them.</p><p>Robin makes a strangled sound that’s part relief and part humiliation. His hips jerk again, his fingers tightening as more piss streams into his shorts. The material is dark and damp, little streams are trickling out of the hem, leaking down those muscular thighs.</p><p>Slade’s whole body feels hot and tense. The smell is making his head swim. The sight of the little Robin with his hand pressed against his cock, piss streaming between his fingers, has his gut clenching with sudden want. He can feel his own cock filling, fattening with desire. His pulse is throbbing in his throat.</p><p>He wants to feel it. Despite his earlier warnings, he wants to feel it against him, that obvious evidence of the kid’s loss of control.</p><p>As if his brain has been separated from his body, his arms move. One hand closes around Robin’s thin wrist, tugging his hand away from his cock. The other grips the meat of his ass, dragging him down against Slade’s pelvis. Immediately, piss slicks his pants, seeping through the weave of the material.</p><p>It’s a novel sensation. Slade shudders at the bloom of heat, the friction of their hips meeting as he pulls Jason down against him. Above him, Robin makes a small wounded noise, but he doesn’t pull away. Just sits on Slade’s hips, his face screwed up in pleasured relief as he empties his bladder into his shorts.</p><p>It lasts long enough that Slade is genuinely impressed the kid held it as long as he did. By the time the stream peters out into a pulsing little dribble, both Slade and Robin are soaked through.</p><p>And Slade is hard as a fucking rock.</p><p>“Fuck,” Jason gasps. His head droops forward until it's pressed to Slade’s collarbone, as if he’s too embarrassed to even look at Slade anymore. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>As if the kid can’t feel exactly how much Slade enjoyed that.</p><p>“Don’t be,” Slade grunts. He’s still holding the kid’s wrist. A trickle of piss has slid down Jason’s palm and soaked into the fabric of Slade’s glove. The insane urge to pull the kid’s hand to his mouth and lick it clean surges through him. He has to lock his muscles tight to keep from doing just that.</p><p>“What?” Jason’s head comes up. In the dim light his eyes are wide and shiny with disbelief and the shimmer of tears. “I fucking pissed all over you. Oh <i>god</i> I pissed on Deathstroke.”</p><p>Something about that - about the words being spelled out so plainly - sends a sharp jolt of arousal through Slade’s gut. Fuck it. He’s hard as a rock underneath Robin’s lithe, teenage body, covered in piss. What is there to be embarrassed about? What is there to stop him?</p><p>So he drags Jason’s palm to his mouth. Presses damp lips against it and flickers his tongue over the streaks of liquid there. Sharp, salty. Slade moans, laving his tongue up the meat of Jason’s palm, then curling it around the kid’s fingers.</p><p>Robin lets out a startled squeak, his whole body jolting against Slade’s and Slade grunts again at the friction. He nips at one of the kid’s slender fingers before sliding it fully into his mouth and sucking.</p><p>“Wha-“ Robin starts to ask, but the word breaks over a startled moan. His eyelashes flutter, casting little shadows over his cheeks. His hips rock down against Slade, the wet fabric of their clothes rubbing over skin as their cocks are pressed together. “What the fuck are you doing?”</p><p>Slade doesn’t bother answering that, just lavishes more attention on Robin’s damp fingers, shuffling his legs to give him the leverage to push himself up to meet the kid. The strength of his thrust knocks Robin’s curly head against the top of the container. Jason barely seems to notice. Just grinds back down to meet each rough thrust, mouth hanging open, eyes glazed behind heavy lids.</p><p>The wet heat of the piss still soaking through their clothes just heightens Slade’s arousal. The rough drag of his soaked pants over his prick hurts a little but that only makes it better. Only makes Slade hotter. His heart is thudding so hard that he wouldn’t be surprised if Jason could hear it. Slade can certainly hear his, pounding in his throat.</p><p>Robin keeps whimpering, making soft, wounded noises, but he doesn’t stop rocking. Slade can feel the hard length of him now, the material of his shorts dark and almost molded around his cock. Slade drops the kid’s thin wrist and shifts his grip to that tantalising bulge instead, forcing the damp material to wrap around Robin’s little prick.</p><p>Robin makes a noise like he’s been punched and falls forward onto Slade’s chest. Damp lips press against the hollow of Slade’s throat. Slade growls, pushing his hips up again and again, stroking his hand over Robin’s damp cock. The piss soaking their pants is cooling now and Robin shivers against him, makes a soft, choking sound, before throbbing in Slade’s hand, unloading his little balls straight into his suit.</p><p>And Slade usually has more stamina than this but the feeling of Robin’s body shuddering, the way his thighs tighten, the feeling of his piss covering Slade’s waist, it all pools low in Slade’s groin. He feels his orgasm build. Thrusts hard as he chases that high, shifting Robin’s whole body above him. Then, finally, the tension snaps and Slade’s whole vision goes white as he comes into his pants like a teenager.</p><p>When he finally eases back down from his high, Robin is limp against his chest, breathing heavily against his throat. The piss and cum cooling on Slade’s pants feels less arousing and more disgusting. It’s cold and sticky and generally unpleasant. Not that they’re going to be able to do anything about it.</p><p>And Slade doesn’t generally go in for moralising, but suddenly he’s uncomfortably aware of the fact that he’s just rubbed himself off against the Bat’s little bird. That whoever finds them is going to be able to tell exactly what happened.</p><p>Slade kind of hopes that their captors come and release them before the Bat actually comes to rescue his kid.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have a tumblr at <a href="https://bearly-writing.tumblr.com/">bearly-writing</a> if you fancy dropping by for a chat!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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